


Before the East Wind

by Fantine_Black



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bickering, Big Brother Mycroft, Comfort, Holmescest (implied), M/M, Missing Scene, Past Drug Use, Petulant Sherlock, Post-The Hounds of Baskerville, Protective Mycroft, Sarcasm, Sibling Bonding, Siblings, Stalker Jim Moriarty, Vulnerable Sherlock, Worried Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-02
Updated: 2014-11-02
Packaged: 2018-02-23 21:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2555948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantine_Black/pseuds/Fantine_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock causes a major security leak - again - the Holmes brothers have a little chat. There's an east wind coming, and Mycroft is not sure his brother can cope.<br/>Unbeknownst to him, neither is Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Before the East Wind

 

He knew Mycroft would be there, of course. That doesn’t make his presence any less imposing. It fills every corner of the room, turning it into an entity ready to swallow him whole.

“Get on the bed.”

No word of greeting, nor other acknowledgement that Sherlock has just returned to his own flat, his very own living room, to find his brother throning in Sherlock's favourite armchair. Mycroft doesn’t even move – he just sits there, a backlit profile, one hand draped over the armrest, the other leaning on his umbrella.

“I’m on a case, Mycroft.” He yanks off his scarf and flings it on the table before taking off his coat and dropping it on the other – John’s – chair. His movements are a bit too jerky to come off as entirely nonchalant – something Mycroft will have picked up on even before he has. Still, his brother wrinkles his nose at the display of slovenliness.

“Were,” he says, as Sherlock busies himself at the microwave. He’s been meaning to get back to the eyeball experiment for a while now.

“Hmpf?” Sherlock replies, staring intently at the display.

“You were on a case.” He hears his brother push himself up – not entirely supple either, judging by the angry little jab the umbrella connects to the floorboards with. “I don’t think you deserve this one.”

Sherlock turns to face him. “Oh, do tell me,” he sneers. “Are Mummy and Daddy very cross about what happened at Baskerville?”

Mycroft sucks in a breath. “My access card,” he hisses. “Brother mine, is there anything you wouldn’t do to make my life impossible?”

“I don’t know. Would you like to find out?”

Mycroft sighs. “Obstructing police work. Withholding evidence. Possession and production of almost any illegal narcotic known to man.” He pauses. “Those I can straighten out. But causing a security leak of this magnitude… _Twice_ …”

Sherlock crosses his arms. “What do you want, Mycroft?”

“I am shutting you down.”

Sherlock snorts. “Not this again!”

But Mycroft’s face is completely impassive. Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“You know what happens when I get bored.”

Mycroft smiles. “If it is drugs you’re referring to, Sherlock, that can be arranged.”

Sherlock frowns. Mycroft has threatened to have him committed before, but that was when he was perpetually strung out. To insinuate this now…

“You’re frightened.”

He’s not _quite_ certain – he still has some trouble picking up cues to do with sentiment, but there are other indicators: Mycroft’s weight loss without the usual signs of exercise, the fact that he is less put together than usual, the traces of nicotine on his finger and – could it be? – a faint smell of bad coffee.

“Of course.”

As ever, Mycroft doesn’t bother to explain, leaving him to work out the details for himself. It is not Baskerville, obviously – despite Mycroft’s whining, that’s easily rectified. The mishap with Bond Air was a little more serious, but that must have been such a covert mission that nobody can be officially held accountable.

Still, Mycroft is both sleep deprived and disheveled, almost as if he’s been doing legwork. His skin tone shows that he has hardly seen daylight for at least 48 hours, he hasn’t changed his clothes, and the only place with bad coffee Mycroft Holmes would deign to frequent is Scotland Yard -

Sherlock gasps. “You’ve got Jim!”

Mycroft just smiles.

“The Woman – she was a distraction!”

“Not in the strictest sense. She’d been on my back burner for a while. But yes, I gathered she’d keep you occupied.”

“But since then – I’ve been cooped up here for weeks…”

Mycroft smirks. “I’ve tried to warn you, Sherlock. Most criminals are dull.”

“How would you know? You don’t do criminals.”

“I didn’t, before you tried to get yourself blown up.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “That was an age ago. Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because you can’t do as told!” Mycroft takes a few steps closer. “Case in point, Sherlock – you turn an assignment to retrieve photographs into an excuse to become the greatest security risk in the Commonwealth! And you want me to put you in a room with Moriarty?”

That’s… that’s not fair. If Mycroft had just told him about the plane… Mycroft never tells him anything…

“I solved that case,” he pouts. “I cracked her code.”

“And you almost undid months of my work in the process. Again.” He walks back to the chair and sits down. “I’ve overestimated you.”

Sherlock thinks of the Bruce-Partington plans and hangs his head. But then he straightens back up. “Fine! Stop bothering me then. Do your own legwork for once.”

Mycroft jerks. “I would, if I could leave you alone for two seconds.” He shakes his head. “Baskerville…”

Sherlock sighs. “What was I supposed to do?” He turns and walks back to the microwave. “I hadn’t had a good case in forever…”

“No wonder. That was the laziest detective work I’ve ever seen!”

Sherlock stops. “Lazy?”

“Lazy,” Mycroft says, reveling in the word as if it were a vintage whiskey. “Lazy, sloppy, subpar work.” At Sherlock's disbelieving look, he adds: “How long would it have taken you to think up a suitable disguise? You didn’t even try.”

Sherlock blinks, four, five times, before swallowing hard. “So what now?” he says finally. “You’d have me doped up to stop me causing trouble? That’s deranged, Mycroft, even by your standards.”

Mycroft looks at him. “What choice do I have?” he says, turning away. “You’re clearly no match for Moriarty…”

He marches back over. “I’ve solved his puzzles every time!”

“Please. He’s been making you dance for months.”

“And you’d rather have me dance for you.”

A flicker of hurt flashes over Mycroft’s face, too quickly to register for anyone but him. He stands up.

“Your problem, Sherlock, is that you still refuse to see the bigger picture. Moriarty has a whole network at his disposal. You...” He smirks. “Well, you have a blog.”

This is too much. He angrily walks to John’s chair for his coat, but Mycroft steps in front of him. “I could teach you.”

“That sounds _boring_.” He grabs his coat and walks to the door. “Let yourself out, Mycroft.” When he crosses the threshold he hears Mycroft’s voice.

“Fine. Shall you ring Maudsley or shall I?”

He takes a deep breath, then turns back. “Tell me, brother mine,” he says, “if you’re so brilliant, why haven’t you dealt with Jim yourself? As you’ve said, it’s been months.”

He sees his brother tense. “James Moriarty is a very minor problem, in the grand scheme of things,” he says tersely. “You’d know that, if you weren’t obsessed with minutiae.”

Sherlock lifts his chin. “So you can’t do it.”

He’s right, even if Mycroft only shifts ever so slightly. “Have you any idea,” he says, “how much trouble it is, keeping the EU from imploding? I couldn’t possibly spare the time…”

But Sherlock grins from ear to ear. “Mikey cannot do it,” he singsongs, pulling faces, “Mikey cannot do it…”

Mycroft jerks his head. “For God’s sake, will you stop being an idiot!”

But Sherlock finds himself nearly dancing with glee. “Mikey cannot do it!”

“Alright!” Mycroft snaps. “I can’t!”

Sherlock stops. “What?”

“On balance, I’ll hurt more people than I’ll help. You’re the better choice.” He sighs. “On paper.”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft…”

“This is no game, Sherlock. If you do this, you’ll need data – classified, important data…”

“And?”

Mycroft moves so close to him that they are almost touching. “You’ll need to follow my instructions.”

Sherlock frowns. “Your instructions.”

“To the letter.” He pauses. “Can you do that?”

They stare at each other for a very long time. Then, very slowly, Sherlock nods.

“Good.” Mycroft turns sharply, walks into the kitchen and pulls John’s secret bottle of whiskey out from under the sink. “Go on to your room, then,” he says. “I’ll be with you in a moment.”

At first, Sherlock stands there, scowling, but after one tense look from Mycroft, he flings down his coat, turns around and stomps to his bedroom. He closes its door with an angry snap.

Then he sinks to the floor.

Mycroft’s here. Mycroft’s _back._ He presses his fists to his face, trying to stifle the sobs that heave through him.

It’s been months. No summons, no phone calls, no caustic remarks. It was as if Mycroft had ceased to exist.

He welcomed it, at first –tracking the Woman proved distracting enough, and John’s blog managed to generate some interesting cases in the meantime. But as the cases dried up, and Mycroft's strange absences continued, he felt more and more certain: the east wind was coming, for him and for John.

John. He pushes himself up and crawls unto the bed. John, his John. John who might as well walk around with the word _TARGET_ on his back. John, who can see but not observe, who will fall victim to whomever wants to get to them, John, who he cannot bear to give up… He pulls up his knees, silently shaking, giving himself to the fear.

Mycroft must help him. Mycroft must fix this. Mycroft must make it alright…

He feels a bit sorry about the keycard; it _was_ a sloppy stunt. But he had to do something to make Mycroft come home… He didn’t do drugs like he'd promised…

He hears Mycroft approach and he tenses, but he doesn’t turn around as the door opens again. He hears a soft ruffling of fabric as Mycroft removes his jacket; a slightly different sound tells him that the waistcoat’s off, too. He readies himself for a jibe, a command; instead, he feels the mattress dip.

“Oh, Sherlock.” He feels Mycroft’s hand on his shoulder, near his neck; a moment later he feels Mycroft’s palm on his curls. His fingers stroke them absentmindedly, and Sherlock leans into the touch; in response, Mycroft lets his right hand trail over the wetness on his cheek. “Sherlock.”

The mattress dips further. Soon he feels his brother’s arm around him, and his shaking subsides. He relishes the feel of Mycroft’s cheek against his collarbone, his stubble against his face;  Mycroft’s free hand still rests in his hair. His smell is sweet and strong, with just a tinge of sweat. He sighs, closes his eyes and nestles himself a bit more tightly against his brother.

But Mycroft doesn’t settle – his breathing is fast and shallow and Sherlock feels his heart hammering against his chest. He squeezes his brother’s hands, but soon lets out a little yelp as Mycroft rolls away from him, unto his back. Frustrated, he puts his hand on his brother’s chest and leans his face against his side, but Mycroft pushes himself up.

“He’s obsessed with you,” he says.

“Don’t care,” Sherlock mumbles, but Mycroft turns away.

“He will kill you,” he says simply. “And he wants to make it hurt.”

“God’s sake," Sherlock groans, but he sits up too. “The man blew up my street just to get my attention. I know who I’m dealing with.”

Mycroft looks at him for a long time, then gets up and grabs his waistcoat. “Meet me at the Diogenes tomorrow,” he says. “And don’t tell John.”

“For the last time, Mycroft, I am not an idiot!”

“Time to prove it,” Mycroft says simply. He puts on his jacket. “Eight o’clock tomorrow! Don’t be late!”

Sherlock turns his back to him; as he hears Mycroft leave, he goes back for his phone and checks the TV listings for 8 pm tomorrow.

It appears that he’s stuck watching Masterchef; then again, it might give him some ideas about the eyeballs. Satisfied, he puts his phone back into his coat pocket and walks away to take a shower.

Outside, the wind turns east.

**Author's Note:**

> Maudsley Hospital is a London based NHS mental health clinic. They are not in the habit of kidnapping patients, however, this being Mycroft, I think he could get them to make an exception.


End file.
